Stars and Stones The Future, Now
by hovercarracer
Summary: On the eve of the assault to reclaim Camelot, the Waters of Avalon take Merlin to the future. Everything is wrong; everyone is different... and if he survives, Merlin must decide what lessen he will bring back.  3x13 AU


**Stars and Stones (The Future, Now)  
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**(Now)**

Arthur hovers somewhere between sleep and awareness. He's tired, but his mind keeps generating, and summarily rejecting, various plans to retake Camelot, and it's keeping him awake. He hears someone get up and step over to the cave entrance; knows it's Merlin by the sound of his footfalls, quiet as they are.

Merlin. He's been acting strange, lately (or at least, stranger than normal)… and there's something else to occupy his thoughts. Indeed, he must fall asleep thinking about his friend, because the next thing Arthur knows, someone's shaking him awake.

His hand goes immediately to the sword at his side even though his mind has already identified the person.

"Merlin."

Who else?

As sleep slips away Arthur notices that his manservant looks… different. Nervous. Dread pools in his stomach.

"What is it?"

To Arthur's utter shock, Merlin's eyes flare a brilliant gold.

"Arthur," he says, "There's something I need to tell you."

.

.

**(Before)**

Merlin's eyes feel gritty and sore. He rubs them tiredly. He can't remember the last time he slept. It's nighttime now, so to all rights he _should_ be sleeping – like everybody else in this cold, cramped cave - but there's no time to rest. No time to close his eyes and dream of a warm bed and hot food and-

Focus.

He needs to focus. The Fisher King's vial is pleasantly cool against his slightly fevered skin. It's been a long few days and he'll be the first to admit that he's no knight – his strength is beginning to wane. There's nothing to be done about it, though. He'll get some rest when he's done with this bloody vial. Honestly, would it have killed the Fisher King to give more specific instructions?

Merlin narrows his eyes and mutters another spell.

The vial remains obstinately unresponsive, glinting smugly at him in the meager candlelight.

"Goddammit," Merlin growls. He's not usually one for cursing (his mother raised him right, thank you), but he's tired. Tired and _scared_ – because he knows that despite Arthur's pretty speech it's going to take a lot more than a few brawny men, an old physician, a blacksmith's daughter, and a scrawny warlock-in-hiding to retake Camelot, no matter how big their hearts are. No matter how big their destinies are.

He _needs_ the vial to give up its secrets, but every attempt he makes saps a little of his magic and there's a fine line between spending energy on the artifact while keeping enough in reserve for… whatever it is that the future may hold.

He's wandering again.

_Focus._

Merlin glances around quickly but the cave, their temporary refuge from Morgause's army, is still. Silent, save for a chorus of soft (or not so soft, in some cases) snoring and the faint sound of tonight's sentry – Gwaine, he thinks – changing positions. Satisfied that no one's watching, he hunches a little closer over the Vial, ignoring the resulting ache in his back. He murmurs another spell, louder; waves his hand a little, and-

"Merlin?"

Merlin yelps. He straightens quickly – too quickly - and the vial tumbles from his grip.

_Nonononono-!_

He makes a grab for it but fatigue has dulled his reflexes and – _oh, gods_ – the vial shatters on the stone floor. The sound is unnaturally loud. It rings in Merlin's ears, thrumming on and on and on and-

The last thing he hears is Arthur calling his name, his voice high with concern and alarm.

Then, mercifully, he hears nothing.

.

.

It's cold.

That's the first thing Merlin registers when awareness returns. He sits up, slowly, because his head feels like it's about to explode – a quick prod reveals a sizeable knot - and looks around. He's still in the cave.

The cave is empty.

There are no slumbering bodies. No candles. No campfire. No-

"Arthur? Gaius?" Panicking, Merlin scrambles outside, headache forgotten, and stops dead. His eyes widen.

The sky is orange. Not glowing pre-dawn orange. Not golden sunset orange. Perilous Lands orange. Wasteland orange.

Suddenly, Merlin's senses come online. He notices that the trees around him are fire-blackened. The smell of smoke is thick on the air, which is cold and dry on his skin. Everything is silent. Merlin suppresses another shiver. Something's wrong.

He's not in the same cave he fell asleep in.

And there's something else – a thrumming under his skin, heavy and rhythmic. His feet move, drawing him out and into the forest, and the thrum – the thrum of magic, he realizes suddenly – gets stronger. A final step brings him into a clearing and Merlin groans with relief - because there's someone else here! He's not alone after all.

A thin, rugged man stands in the middle of a perfectly circular patch of cleared ground. Everything about him is dirty and soot stained – his hair, his skin, his ragged clothing. He turns at Merlin's groan.

They both freeze.

Merlin's eyes widen, and he suddenly realizes that the question he needs answered is not _where_ he is, but rather _when_.

Because the man in the clearing is _him_.

.

.

His future self gets over the shock fast, but then he has the look of a man who has seen too much to be surprised at many things anymore.

He mutters something that sounds like "Stars and stones, it actually worked! That was fast!" Then his eyes narrow and something in his face hardens. He turns back to an object in his hands and even at this distance Merlin – _present _Merlin, that is – easily recognizes the Fisher King's vial. Future Merlin shouts a word, and suddenly the thrumming reaches an overwhelming crescendo.

.

.

"This is the future."

The words are out of Merlin's mouth even before he opens his eyes. He sits up, head spinning with confusion and vertigo. He's getting sick of falling unconscious.

"This is _your_ future," someone corrects. Merlin turns and no, it's not just a bad dream, because his future self is right there, looking every bit as gaunt and haggard and ill as Merlin feels now. In the future. _Gods._

"Don't think about it," his future advises him, a wry smirk on his face. "You'll go mad. Or rather – _we_ will, if you prefer."

"How did I get here?"

In answer, the future him holds up the vial. It glimmers blue in the afternoon light, and the two of them (the two of _him. _Don't think about it. Gods, _don't think about it_) look at it in contemplative silence.

"I need to go back soon; give it to the Fisher King so he can pass it on to you."

Both of their faces screw up simultaneously.

"Don't think about it," they say together, grinning. Merlin finally sees a glimmer of himself in that face, and the hysterical panic that's been there since he woke up fades a little.

"How far?" Merlin asks quietly, after a moment. He's almost afraid to hear the answer. "How far am I?"

The smile disappears from his companion's face, rendering it unrecognizable once more.

"Six years."

Merlin swallows. "Why am I here?"

"Six years," his double repeats. "Six years since the king reclaimed Camelot. Five since he declared a new war on magic. Three since he killed Morgana and Morgause, and all their followers. Two and a half since he slew the last dragon. One year since Mordred." He swallows. The next sentence comes out choked. "A week since Gaius…"

Merlin hears the rushing in his ears again. He bows his head to his knees quickly until it passes.

"Stars and stones," his companion snorts, pressing a skin of water into his hands. "Was I really that delicate?"

"Shut up," Merlin mutters reflexively while thinking distractedly, 'Stars and stones? When did I start saying that?'

Future him sits down with a heavy sigh, and Merlin is struck again by how weary he looks. This is him only six years from now (from _then_), and he can't help but think that the face across from him bears too many unfamiliar wrinkles. They're not laugh lines.

Merlin knows he should probably ask some important questions; questions that will probably explain those furrows on that brow. The most urgent of these is 'Where's Arthur?' followed closely by, 'Does he _know_, yet?'…But his mind is still reeling at the 'six years' part and all that followed, so instead he asks:

"The- the king? Uther did all of that? He killed Morgana?"

"Not Uther," future Merlin says grimly. "Arthur."

.

.

During the next few hours Merlin learns more about the future than he ever wanted to. Arthur retook Camelot from the immortal army, with Merlin's covert help.

That's where the good news ends.

According to Merlin's future self, Uther never recovered from Morgana's betrayal. Arthur was crowned, but he never forgot the betrayal and loss that magic wrought on him – he became the new champion for the fight against the arcane. He became an even greater tyrant than Uther had ever been.

"No! Arthur would never do that!" Merlin stammers desperately. "Y-You're lying!" Except he knows he isn't. He knows his own tells.

"Stars and stones, it's like I'm talking to a wall!" his own face snarls back, twisted with frustration. "Don't you get it? Arthur sees magic as the cause of every misfortune in his life! He has destroyed everything! Everything!"future Merlin repeats, his voice breaking with grief.

"But-"

"Don't you see? _This_ is why I brought you here - to see how things will be when Arthur takes the throne." His future self whirls; grips Merlin's shoulders tightly. His eyes are wild. "You must change things! _Do not spill the Cup!_"

"What are you saying?" Merlin says, stunned.

"Do not spill the Cup of Immortal Life. Do not let Arthur retake Camelot, or this-" he gestures to the orange sky and the blackened trees –"this is what awaits you. When you get back to your time… you need to leave him."

"No!" Merlin exclaims, horrified. "I can't just… leave him to fight on his own! Morgause's army is immortal! He'll die!"

"Good!" the other Merlin roars. "Let him die! Let him die by someone else's hand if you have not the courage to do it yourself. Gods know I couldn't," he adds in a broken whisper.

"How can you say that?" Merlin mumbles, still disbelieving. "This is… this is _Arthur. _He-"

"-Is not the man you think he is! You think he cares about his kingdom? About his people? Gwaine, Lancelot, Leon, Gaius…" Merlin flinches at each name. "I tried to save them; tried everything I could think of. I even told him about my magic, but it only made things worse. All he sees now is betrayal and enemies, and now I… I am the last."

Future Merlin's eyes are swirling with gold, his face a twisted mask of bitter rage and fear. Is this what he looks like? Is this who he will be in six years? Merlin steps back, suddenly afraid.

Something must show on his face. The man across the clearing throws him a look of disgust. "Die here, then," he spits out. "The king is coming. His army will be here tomorrow to kill me. Us. You can't help Arthur reclaim Camelot in the past if you die in the future. Now if you'll excuse me… I need to finish my preparations." He snatches up the vial and begins to chant.

"No, wait!" Merlin cries as the thrumming swells again. But the other warlock is beyond talking to him now, and Merlin barely has enough time to think "Not again!" before he crashes to the ground.

.

.

This time, Merlin wakes to the sound of shouting and hoarse cries somewhere nearby. The events of the previous night come back to him in a rush of disconnected thoughts.

_The king is coming. His army will be here tomorrow to kill me._

Merlin lurches to his feet, barely managing to keep the meager contents of his stomach in place as the forest whirls around him. He waits until he's only seeing double, then staggers up the path towards wherever the future Merlin is battling the future Arthur. The _possible_ future Arthur, he reminds himself. The future is not set. He has to believe that.

The sound of fighting becomes suddenly loud and all at once Merlin pushes out of the forest. The landscape is desolate and scarred, but he sees only one thing.

Arthur is unrecognizable.

He looks older. He's wearing heavy armour but is helmless. Merlin can see the creases on his face - creases that fold his features into the expression of anger and bloodlust and righteous fury it's currently set in. Everything about him seems bloodstained – even Excalibur, which Merlin instantly recognizes in Arthur's raised right hand.

Future Merlin's right hand is also raised. A glowing ball of something that looks like fire, but probably isn't, is cupped in his palm. It stays there.

"Gods…Arthur… _I can't_…"

"Then you're a coward."

Merlin arrives just in time to see Arthur run him through.

(Future him. Not… _him_. Oh, gods. Not him.)

Merlin's world collapses.

He lets out a choked cry, and Arthur turns to him. His eyes are cold and hard.

"More magic," he growls. He hefts Excalibur anew, and Merlin pales because – oh, gods - he knows that expression on Arthur's face and if he wants to live he has to run. _Now_.

Merlin crashes back into the forest, thoughts a panicked blur.

"Run all you want, Merlin," Arthur roars after him, "You know how much I love a good hunt."

.

.

Back. He has to get back to his own time.

But the vial is gone.

He can hear Arthur barreling through the forest behind him.

The vial. The Fisher King's vial contains the waters of Avalon. _Avalon._

He has to get to the lake.

Arthur draws closer.

.

.

Somehow, he makes it to the lake. He tumbles into the water, distantly registering Arthur's appearance at the edge of the clearing.

"Where do you think you're going, Merlin?" Arthur shouts. "There is nowhere left to run!"

Maybe there's no _where_, Merlin thinks as he ducks below the surface, but there's a _when_. He hopes. Gods, he has no idea what he's supposed to do next.

Below the water everything is muted, save for the rapid, too-loud pounding of his heart in his ears.

Arthur wades into the water, fast approaching Merlin's location.

_Take me home_, Merlin begs silently. He doesn't want to die in the future. Actually, he just doesn't want to die, period. _Please, gods, take me back!  
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Arthur spots him. His distorted image grows clearer as he draws closer.

Merlin's lungs are bursting with the need for air, but finally something's happening. The thrumming has started. He just needs a little more time… He forces his limbs to move; lets himself drift deeper into the lake.

It's no use. Arthur tracks the ripples in the water, following him out.

The magic begins to swell.

.

Breathe! Gods, he needs to breathe!

.

Arthur reaches him. Excalibur gleams as he positions it overhead.

.

_You can't help Arthur reclaim Camelot in the past if you die in the future._

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Merlin's air runs out. He shouts, panicking; chokes on water.

.

.

Excalibur spears downwards.

.

.

The thrumming reaches its peak.

.

.

.

Merlin's eyes flare open. He chokes and chokes and chokes and-

Someone thumps him solidly on the back. The hand is warm and familiar through the thin material of his sleep clothes.

"Get Gaius," he hears Arthur say to someone. _Arthur._

"Merlin? What's wrong, my lad?" Other familiar faces swim into view, alive and well. Gaius. Gwaine. Elyan. He allows his gaze to settle on each of them in turn, letting the sight ground him more firmly in the present. The buzz of voices in his ears is soothing compared to the frightening underwater silence of seconds earlier.

"-just collapsed and started choking!" Arthur's saying worriedly.

"_Arthur_," Merlin croaks.

The face in front of him comes into focus and Merlin all but cries with relief. Because this is Arthur. _His_ Arthur, whose features are pinched with concern, not anger.

"I know I call you a girl all the time, Merlin, but this is extreme even for you."

That summons a smile, and suddenly it's easy to struggle upright, batting the helping hands away.

"It was just a dream," he says. "_Stars and stones_. It was just a bad dream."

.

.

Eventually the furor dies down. Everyone goes back to sleep. Everyone except Merlin. He blinks at the rocky ceiling, still a little nauseous, still tired to the bone, and still completely unable to find rest.

_Let him die by someone else's hand if you can't do it yourself!_

However much he'd like to believe otherwise, he knows the trip to the future was real. He knows his future self was telling the truth.

_When you get back to your time… you need to leave him._

Merlin rises silently. He pads over to the cave opening and, in a moment of weakness, looks back over his slumbering friends; one in particular. He doesn't know how long he spends turning the problem over in his mind, frozen in the cave entrance. In the end there is only one thing to do.

He won't leave.

He can't betray Arthur like that, even knowing… even knowing how things could turn out.

_Arthur sees magic as the cause of every misfortune in his life!_

And yet, for all his bitter words, future Merlin wouldn't have pulled him through time if he hadn't believed, deep down, that something could be changed.

He can alter the future in other ways. He believes that. He must.

Turning, Merlin picks his way over to Arthur's bedroll. He places a cold, slightly trembling hand on the prince's shoulder and shakes gently. Arthur wakes instantly, hand instinctively going to the sword at his side.

"M'rlin?" he mumbles blearily. " 's it?"

Merlin lets his eyes turn golden.

"Arthur. There's something I have to tell you."

.

.

**(Later)**

Merlin stands at the edge of a familiar forest, surveying the plain beyond with a strange mixture of dread and relief.

It's been six years.

Six years since he took Arthur to the lake on dragonback. That was the night that Freya had given Merlin Excalibur, and that Merlin, pushing past the fear from the last time he'd seen that mighty weapon, had passed it to Arthur. It's been six years to the day since the two of them sat in a quiet, moonlit clearing and talked about magic.

Five years have passed since Arthur claimed the throne and repealed the ban on magic; three since Morgana made her peace with them. Two and half years since he'd last seen the great dragon; one since he'd heard word of Mordred. A week ago Gaius passed, peacefully, in his sleep.

Arthur steps up next to him, Excalibur sheathed at his side.

"Six years," he grins exuberantly. His voice is knowing, because the night Merlin decided there would be no more secrets between them, he'd meant it. "We made it."

Merlin smiles back, relieved, because even after all this time he'd never been entirely sure… But the sky is startlingly blue overhead, the forest behind a deep, healthy green, and the plain before them beautiful and golden.

"We did, too," he agrees. "_Stars and stones._"


End file.
